Even More Scary Stories

Twin Study

This will be a long story (8135 words)

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I've been a human specimen going on twenty years now, ever since my sister and I were twelve, when my parents enrolled us in California State University's Twin Study. Every four years the two of us, along with several hundred other pairs of identical twins from California, meet in the same depressing chain hotel in Fresno to be tested, prodded, and poked. "YOU ARE SPECIAL!!!" begins the notice for every one of these meetings. Whoopee. I'm special. Not because of anything I've done, no, of course not. I'm special because I'm genetically identical to another person, a person I haven't seen in four years, since the last meeting of the California Twin Study.

Shall I enumerate the many hates associated with this event? First, I hate the hotel. In particular, I can't stand the central atrium; it gives me a bad eighties feeling -- of wine bars, terrycloth sweatbands, neon flamingos. It reminds me of that horrible era (between the first and second meeting) when Samantha and I were in our early teens and it was first becoming clear that we were not the same. Of course, we were identical genetically; what's more, we shared a placenta; but inside, in our brains, souls, and hearts, we weren't the same. This became apparent slowly, even though I knew what Samantha was going to say before she said it, and I knew which boys she'd like before she met them, and we always got up at the same time in the night to pee, among other uncanny similarities. Second, I hate the rooms, with their big, smoked glass windows overlooking the swimming pool. The glass heats up in the sun and then ticks all night as it cools. I hate the bar, tucked in a dark hole under the escalator, smelling of smoke, though smoking is forbidden in California bars. That's third. Fourth, I hate Fresno, a sad, crumbling town, surrounded on all sides by endless rows of crops, like an island in a vegetable sea. I hate the twin researchers, who for the most part are cheerful and kind, dorky in the way of tenured academics -- ten years behind in fashion -- and who do not have dark doubles, I'm sure of it. But most of all, what are we on, six? Yes, I hate seeing Samantha, my twin sister, once every four years.

"Then don't go." This advice comes from Ivan, my new husband. "If you dread seeing your sister, don't torture yourself. Stay home."

"That's a good idea," I reply with conviction, though I've already bought our plane tickets and reserved a suite in the horrible hotel. "What about the money?"

"They can shove it," says Ivan. He's older than me by fifteen years, solid and rich from practicing contract law all day long in a high-rise building. Every morning he shaves his mostly bald head so that it's totally bald. I find him handsome, in a sinister way. Of course it's true that he may not be the most benevolent person in the world. But he's kind to me. And there is much to be said for a man like Ivan, a man who can make me feel very safe even while driving very fast.

"What about science?"

"Fuck science." Ivan sits on the bed and puts on his shoes. A well-dressed man, a successful man, maybe even a little ruthless. I try not to think about that too much, but I come across the evidence. A nasty, anonymous letter in the mailbox. A stone through the front window. And then there's his son, Jason, from his previous marriage, who stays over with us one weekend a month. He is, as far as I can tell, a complete monster. But maybe this has nothing to do with Ivan. Thirteen is never a good age.

"I already bought us plane tickets," I confess.

"Okay, if that's what you really want," says Ivan, putting his jacket on, then coming closer and putting his arm around me. "We'll go together." I follow him down the stairs. In the hall he picks up his briefcase, kisses me on the forehead, and sails out the front door. I stand in the doorway in my bathrobe, waving like a nineteen-fifties housewife. "Call Lana," he yells back, "and let her know the details."